


Solace

by cutepoison, humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Related, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Mentor/Protégé, Post-Sectumsempra, a little bit of supportive cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutepoison/pseuds/cutepoison, https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding him bleeding out on the bathroom floor, Severus takes Draco to his own quarters to heal him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally an RP between the two of us, and I (humanveil) decided to fix it up and chuck it on here. Hope you guys like it!

Severus hoists Draco up into a standing position, wrapping one arm around the boy’s waist to support him. He leans forward slightly, prompting Draco to put an arm around his shoulders, and turns to look at Potter.

“You will come to my office tomorrow,” he says, his voice showing no room for argument.

Harry nods, too shocked at the turn of events to even consider disobeying. “Yes, sir.”

Severus gives him one last, long look before tightening his hold on Draco and leaving the ruined bathroom. Both he and the boy are soaked in water and blood, their clothes sticking to their frames uncomfortably, but he pays it no attention.

They move through the halls as quickly as they possibly can, Draco slumping against the professor’s body, entirely reliant on him to stay standing. Fortunately, they don’t meet anyone on the way to Severus’ quarters.

When they do reach his rooms, Severus moves straight through his office and to his personal area, dropping the boy onto a two seated couch that resides in the corner. He’s gentle as he lays Draco down, ensuring that the fresh wounds aren’t too disturbed at the movements. Quiet gasps of pain leak through Draco’s self-control, the noises bringing a frown to Severus’ face.

“Don’t move,” he says, brushing the back of his hand against Draco’s forehead. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

The move from Moaning Myrtle’s lavatory to Snape’s personal quarters had been a tiring one, and all Draco’s body wants to do is collapse and curl in on itself. Pain continues to wrack his bones, despite the healing charm his professor had cast on him just minutes before as he lay bleeding to death on the bathroom floor.

His head feels light, his muscles weak. Pain seemed to replace what blood was left in his veins, coursing through his body in successions of blinding agony.

Severus moves quickly to his office, searching through his shelves for slaves and pain potions he’d brewed himself. He’s aware that he ought to have taken Draco to the Hospital Wing, but he couldn’t risk exposing the mark burned into the boy’s arm.

Besides, he trusts himself more.

He returns to Draco with a few vials in hand and places them on the floor next to the couch. Stepping back, he removes his outer robe, the fabric now uncomfortably heavy with water, and discards it before kneeling besides the couch.

Draco, focused entirely on muffling his pathetic whimpers of discomfort, doesn’t register the sofa until he opens his eyes and sees Snape kneeling beside him.

“Remove your shirt.” Severus’ voice is quiet as he talks, gentle, almost. As he reaches for the first vial – a light blue liquid that simmers under the light – he asks, “How bad is the pain?”

It takes a few long moments for Draco to start unbuttoning his shirt, caught between wanting to tell his professor he doesn’t need help and giving in completely, allowing the man to treat him with potions Draco knows will begin to work in no time at all.

He goes with the latter, pride pushed aside.

“Obviously bad,” Draco spits, annoyed, almost, arching from the cushions as he shrugs out of his white school shirt. He bites his lip, clenches his eyes shut as shooting pain goes through his chest and abdomen.

“Wh-What kind of curse did Potter use? I’ve never—” Draco balls up his fists. “He tried to bloody kill me!”

Never mind that he’d tried to use the Cruciatus curse on Harry. That was, at the moment, not the point.

Severus purses his lips at the boy’s tone, but decides not to reprimand him for the obvious disrespect. Had it been anyone else, under any different circumstance, he would not have offered the same courtesy.

He watches as the boy struggles to remove his shirt, notices the obvious signs of pain that colour his face, but doesn’t move to help. Instead, he takes hold of an empty vial, filling it with some of the blue liquid.

“Never mind that,” Severus answers, tone dismissive. “I will deal with Potter myself. You’ve more important things to worry over.”

He holds the vial to the light, examining the exact amount he’d poured into it, before turning to Draco. He moves the small glass to Draco’s mouth, pressing it to his lips softly.

“Drink,” he says. “It will ease the pain.”

Draco opens his mouth to retort, to say that Potter trying to kill him wasn’t something they could just sweep underneath the rug and forget about until next Tuesday, but inevitably decides against it.

He looks to the small glass being forced against his mouth before locking eyes with his professor. He parts his lips, allowing the stunning blue liquid to be poured into his mouth, onto his tongue. It’s bitter and awful, and Draco tries not to gag as he swallows it all.

Only when he looks down at his bare torso, bloodied and badly bruised, does he notice the Mark on his forearm is uncovered, no longer hidden from Snape’s gaze. Draco, heart thundering in his chest, covers it quickly with his other hand.

He doesn’t dare to look up.

Severus raises a thin brow at Draco’s sudden movement, knowing it would have had to hurt. A quiet sigh leaves him as he takes the now empty vial from Draco’s lips and places it back on the ground.

“Do you take me for a fool?” he asks, reaching for Draco’s left forearm and prying the hand away, making the Mark visible once again. “I was one of the first His Lordship told about his plans for you, Draco. Why do you think I’ve been trying to help?”

He moves a hand to Draco’s shoulder, pressing against it, urging him to lie back, before grabbing another two vials. Both are larger than the last, one containing a thick, white cream, while the other holds a murky, orange fluid. The orange liquid is a disinfectant, while the other is meant for large gashes and bruises, the solution lessening the chances of scarring and quickening the healing process.

Out of everyone in this sorry excuse for a school, students and teachers alike, Severus Snape is the last person Draco would ever take for a fool. It didn’t lessen Draco’s fears of being stopped before he could carry out the orders, however, knowing there was too much to lose if that happened.

He doesn’t say anything while the man reaches for two more vials, instead relaxing back into the couch and hoping he doesn’t have to drink anything else. They were absolutely ghastly looking.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help. _I_ was chosen for this, not you,” Draco pauses and fights the urge to get up and crawl back to his own dormitory, where he could suffer in peace. “I-I need to be the one to do it.”

He conjures a cloth as he listens, dampening it with a quick spell before moving to press it against the young Malfoy’s skin. He moves it in slow circles, wiping up the residue left behind from the blood and bathroom water.

Severus suppresses another sigh at Draco’s words, pulling the cloth from his skin and making it disappear with a wave of his hand. He conjures a clean one, uncapping the orange liquid and pouring it onto the new piece of fabric.

“Do not kid yourself, Mr. Malfoy. You are in dire need of help.” He presses the soaked cloth to the gashes that cover Draco’s chest, the sharp gasps of pain going ignored. “Or is crying in the bathroom and confiding in an irksome ghost all part of your master plan?”

Draco chokes on a half-gasp, half-sob as the potion is applied to his wounds, his long, thin fingers curling around the edges of the couch’s cushions as his body goes taut with pain. Whatever curse Potter had used on him had made deep gashes along his torso, and although they had been perfectly knitted together by Severus’ healing spell, Draco still feels as if he can pass out at any time.

He wants to open his eyes, throw a glowering look of anger and annoyance Snape’s way, but he’s too focused on not crying; from pain or mental exhaustion, Draco honestly doesn’t know.

“I wasn’t... confiding in her, she was just—” he cuts himself off, knowing it was a moot point now. It didn’t matter. The boy clenches his jaw until his teeth ache.

Severus attempts to make eye contact, but the boy won’t meet his eyes. Still, he catches a glimpse of the unshed tears, the emotion that’s creating cracks in the once perfect self-control. Even an idiot could see how worn Draco is; exhaustion is etched into his every feature, his pale complexion ruined by dark circles underneath his eyes. Severus has been watching him, not only because of the Vow’s obligations, but out of curiosity, too. The pressure of the Dark Lord’s task has made him a shell of the bratty teenager he used to be, and Severus is surprised to find he pities Draco.

“I do not want your supposed glory,” he says, his voice soft as he continues to press the cloth against his skin. “My position with the Dark Lord is perfectly fine as it is. I merely wish to ensure your safety.”

He finishes applying the disinfectant, exchanging the orange liquid and cloth for the white slave. Unscrewing its lid, he continues; “I made an unbreakable vow to protect you, Draco. Not just from the harm of others, but from yourself, too.”

Severus reaches into the jar, scooping a large amount of the cream into his hand before placing the vial on the ground and pressing the chilled substance to Draco’s torso. He uses his fingers to apply the cream, massaging it into the boy’s skin in slow, rhythmic circles.

“I know how much depends on your performance. I can ensure you succeed. Just let me help you.”

Draco’s face softens when Snape continues speaking.

“You… You what?” Draco asks, eyes widening. He remembers Snape mentioning it before, but he’d been too angry, too stressed, to think over it much.

One hand darts out to snatch Snape’s wrist, stopping him from continuing to rub the white substance into his skin, no matter how good the cold salve and deft fingers felt. He looks at his professor as if he’s grown two heads.

“Why? Why would _you_ protect _me_? What’s in it for you?”

It doesn’t make sense. Sure, Snape was his Head of House, but passed that… Draco couldn’t understand why the man would make such a stupid sacrifice for someone’s like himself.

Still holding Snape’s wrist, Draco blinks dumbly at him, waiting for an answer.

Severus is surprised at the boy’s movements, his gaze lingering on Draco’s hand around his wrist for a moment. When he speaks, it’s with an air of his own type of exhaustion, as if he’s tired of having the same argument.

“I already told you, Draco. I swore to your mother.”

He removes his hand from Draco’s grasp, returning his fingers to the hard torso. He’d worried the boy to be too thin before, hiding under clothes just this side of too big, but now, his view up close and personal, he knows it to be true.

Another thing to worry about, he supposes, adding it to his ever growing mental list.

“It doesn’t matter what’s in it for me,” he replies. His fingers run across each cut as he speaks, paying careful attention to each wound. He wouldn’t care so much, had it been himself that was hit. He has too many scars for more to bother him, but Draco... He’s well aware of Draco’s vanity, and it isn’t too much to keep that intact, if nothing else. “What matters is that I took it, and I would appreciate if you could make things easier for me.”

Truthfully, there wasn’t much in it for him. Other than further solidifying his façade of loyalty to the Dark Lord, the Vow did not benefit him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Looking back, it had been stupid to let Bellatrix get to him, to allow her to push him into accepting Narcissa’s request, yet... He cannot regret it. Despite himself, he has always had a soft spot for Draco, ever since Lucius had first introduced him. He has an instinct to protect the boy, to preserve the good in him; the Vow just means he _has_ to.

 “The last time I checked, Professor, people don’t do things unless there’s something in it that benefits their interests,” Draco retorts. “Not in this world.”

He doesn’t press the issue further, though. Severus was clearly exhausted of the topic and quite frankly, Draco was, too. His life has been consumed with the orders from the Dark Lord, and it’s wearing thin on him. He can’t remember the last meal he had, and sleep feels like a distant childhood memory.  

Draco’s tired. He doesn’t want to argue anymore.

For a long while, Draco simply watches Snape’s fingers move over his battered body. The white salve helping to take the pain away just as much as the blue potion did, and Draco finds that he can breathe a bit easier. His worn eyes drift up to the man’s face once again, and he blows out a defeated sigh.

“I should thank you,” Draco utters, tone soft and rid of the fight that had been present earlier. “Not for the Vow. I still think you’re a right git for doing such a thing,” he adds, and a flicker of a smile graces his lips, “but for being there after what Potter had done.”

He clears his throat, a light flush coming to his cheeks as he contemplates his next words. “For taking care of me now, here.”

Snape’s hand stops its movements for a fraction of a second, momentarily surprised to hear Draco say such a thing. The boy was not known to be overly thankful, not unless his parents were in a short distance of him. While the words had not been a direct ‘thank you’, the intent was clear enough.

His own lips twitch in an amused smirk, eyes flicking up to Draco’s face. “Someone has to.”

He removes his hands from Draco’s body, wiping the left over slave off on his pant leg. He wouldn’t, usually, but the fabric is already in dire need of a wash; no issue in further dirtying them. He readies the vials to be placed back on their respective shelves, but doesn’t move to stand.

Instead, his eyes dart to the discarded shirt. It’s shred to pieces, large cuts surrounded by the faded crimson of blood. The boy will, eventually, have to return to his dorm. Severus can’t have him walking through the halls without a shirt, his mark exposed for everyone to see, and so...

“If you wait for the solution to be absorbed, you can use my shower. Better to minimise the questions.”

 _Someone has to_ shouldn’t have affected Draco the way it did. His cheeks burn hotter and his pulse picks up slightly, and he has to force himself to look away from Snape so he doesn’t stutter over his words.

Odd.

“Yeah. I’ll stay,” he nods, eyes wandering over the salve-covered wounds on his concave abdomen, across his chest.

A part of Draco, a part he doesn’t quite understand, feels the desire to stay in his professor’s quarters, hidden away from the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters; away from Dumbledore and Potter. He was safe here, so he thinks, at least. It _feels_ safe here.

Severus nods, staring at Draco for a moment before murmuring, “The scars should fade,” he murmurs. “In time.”

At Snape’s last comment, Draco can’t help but snort bitterly. He closes his eyes, wondering if he’d even be granted enough time for the scars to heal. He supposes it was up to him. Killing Dumbledore will decipher his future, or lack thereof.

Draco tries his best to swallow the fast-forming lump of emotion in his throat. Rather than dwelling on it, he looks up at Snape once again, resting his head back against the arm of the sofa. “You need a shower, too. You smell like toilet water.”

Draco wrinkles his nose teasingly, though he knows he probably doesn’t smell any better.

Severus huffs a laugh at the words before finally gathering the vials and standing. “Me first, then.”

He turns, moving in the direction of his office. Once there, he quickly replaces the vials, double checking the door to ensure it’s locked. When he returns, he stops at Draco’s side briefly. “It will work faster if you don’t move,” he says. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He turns towards his personal bathroom at Draco’s nod, undressing quickly and turning the water to near scalding. It hits his back in hard pelts, each droplet of water washing away some of his ever present stress. He doesn’t stay inside for very long; his movements efficient. He places his concentration on removing the ‘toilet water’ smell, as Draco had put it, effectively disallowing his mind to wander.

 *

As soon as Severus disappears into the bathroom, Draco forces himself to relax further, eyes falling closed. He hasn’t slept in what feels like months, and begins to feel as if he might be able to drift off while his professor bathes.

The room’s quiet, lamps dimmed just enough that it doesn’t worsen the slight headache Draco’s been nursing for the last few days. If anything, the essence of the room dulls the pain beneath his skull.

 *

Severus realises too late that he’d forgotten to bring clothes in with him, and has to exit the bathroom with nothing but a black, fluffy towel wrapped around his waist. His hair sticks to the back of his neck, small droplets of water trailing down the pale skin of his back and disappearing beneath the fabric of the towel. He doesn’t try to cover up, unashamed of his body, of the countless scars that cover his skin.

Draco feels himself slipping into unconsciousness just as Snape emerges from the shower, and his gaze immediately runs over the expanse of the older man’s nearly naked body, over his collarbones and shoulders, down to his stomach, stopping briefly to stare at rigid scars, eyes finally zeroing in on his forearm where the Dark Mark appears stark against Snape’s pale skin.

Draco does his best to sit up while suppressing a wince, no longer all that tired. His mouth gapes a bit and Draco shakes his head at Snape’s comment.

Snape notices Draco turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow as the boy’s eyes flicker towards the mark. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“It’s different to actually see it.”

With a great deal of effort, Draco rises from the sofa and slowly shuffles over to where Snape is standing. Their marks are just alike, not even a fraction of a difference.

Despite it all, Draco still feels safe with Severus.

“Do you regret it? Getting involved before?”

Severus swallows as Draco moves towards him, standing somewhat awkwardly in front of a chest of draws, hand positioned on a handle. He considers Draco’s question, thinking back to his late teenage years, the beginning of the first war. It had seemed like a good idea back then, perfect, almost. But years under the Dark Lord’s rule has made things clear to him, has removed the veil his once over eager enthusiasm had created.

Ultimately, nothing good was to come of it. Voldemort could rave about a superior race all he wanted, Severus knew the end destination would always be mindless death and destruction.

It is something he wants Draco to understand, to see. He itches to tell the boy, warn him that the glory and power the Dark Lord offers doesn’t actually exist, yet he cannot. For as much as he wants to protect Draco from the pain his path will put him through, he has his own role to stress over; his own life to worry about. He’s aware it’s incredibly unlikely that he’ll survive the war, has accepted it a long time ago. Now it was merely making sure he died at the _right_ moment; at a time that would help secure the Dark Lord’s defeat.

He wants to say ‘yes’, or maybe ‘it’s complicated’, but he has a role to play. So, as his eyes trail over the boy, his scarred bare chest and ruined forearm, he says, “No.”

He thinks he sees brief disappointment flash in Draco’s eyes, but he buries the hope. He doesn’t wait for the boy to respond, choosing instead to pull the draw open and turn his gaze to the neatly folded clothing that lies within it.

“It’s been long enough. You should be able to shower without trouble.”

Draco isn’t a fool.

He knows it’s a lie, can see right through Severus’ delayed response, the way he turns from Draco as soon as he mutters that one, simple word. It’s a façade, though one Draco isn’t prepared to argue about. Not right now.

Instead, Draco stares at his professor’s profile, the wispy lines of dark, damp hair framing his face, some tucked back behind an ear, for a few more moments before turning and slowly making his way into the bathroom.

The mirror is still fogged from Snape’s shower, and Draco reaches a hand forward to wipe away the condensation so he can take a good look at himself. The salve was soaking into his skin, wounds already scarring. He traces a single finger along a particularly large scar across his abdomen, knowing if it hadn’t been for Snape, it would have been the one to kill him.

He swallows thickly and tears himself away from the mirror, turning on the hot water until steam begins to filter out above the top of the curtain. Draco takes off the rest of his clothing and folds them up neatly on the counter before stepping beneath the scalding spray.

In the privacy of the bathroom, Draco allows himself to whimper freely as the water beats down relentlessly against his battered form. It hurts, but it’s just what he needs as tears collect underneath his lashes. He takes a good twenty minutes using Snape’s shower gel to clean his hair and wash away the remaining salve on his marred skin.

When he emerges from the bathroom his blonde hair is hanging damp against his forehead, and he’s in nothing but his boxer-briefs. He isn’t allowing any time to talk himself out of it before he shyly blurts, “Can I stay here tonight?”

It’s stupid, perhaps even reckless, but he can’t deny how safe, how _protected_ he felt lying on the couch while Snape bathed. He wants to feel that comfort again, and Draco knows he won’t if he’s alone in his dormitory. He looks up, a twinge of hopefulness in his slightly red and puffy eyes.

Severus looks up at the outburst, his face giving away none of his surprise at the boy’s request. He’s dressed now, covered in a loose robe that hangs freely against his frame, opening at the middle to reveal his bare chest and pyjama bottoms. He’s dressed more casually than Draco has seen him since he was a small child.

Snape looks over Draco’s form, gaze perhaps lingering longer than it should have. He takes in the too-thin frame, the cuts, now well into their healing process, that cover once perfect skin. Part of him wishes he’d never made the spell, while another part is too proud of everything he’d done with it.

His gaze lands on the boy’s face, and it’s with hardly any surprise that Severus notices Draco’s been crying. He considers the request again, wonders if it means the boy is becoming more open to his offer of help.

There are things he should say, things like ‘it’s against the rules’ or ‘people will talk’, but he doesn’t. It’s not like either of them are particularly known for going by the rules, or that people weren’t already talking.

He moves to his set of draws again, opening the top one and pulling a plain white shirt from its contents. Holding it out towards Draco, he says, “Wear this.”

His fingers brush against Draco’s as the boy takes the shirt, and Snape lets his hand drop once it’s out of his hold. He turns away from Draco, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable by watching as he puts the shirt on. “I can find pants that will fit, if you want them?”

As Severus moves across the room to his draws, Draco can’t help feeling both ashamed of asking to stay, and relieved the man didn’t come right out and say that he couldn’t.

He takes the shirt with a nod, his own version of a ‘thank you’, and almost misses the warmth of Snape’s fingers against his own as their hands part. Draco slips it on carefully, feeling a little less exposed now that his upper-half was covered by the too-big shirt. He nearly drowns in it, the hem reaching his mid-thigh, and it brings a bout of unexpected comfort.

Draco gauges his professor’s lack of a response to his question as an answer all on its own, and he shakes his head. “No. No, I’m fine. I don’t sleep in pants,” he admits, moving around so he could see Snape’s face once again.

The smile he gives is half-forced, but it holds a certain depth of gratitude that he hopes Severus can see and understand without Draco having to audibly say it.

Severus nods back at him, sliding the draw shut and stepping away. They both have work to do, he knows; obligations both to Hogwarts and the Dark Lord, but... they can wait. Draco is obviously exhausted, is obviously in need of a proper night’s sleep, and Severus himself isn’t much better. It’s only nearing eight o’clock, but he places his hand on Draco’s shoulder, pushing him softly in the direction of the bed.

He’s thankful neither of them have early starts the next day. It’ll allow him to talk to Draco when the boy’s mind wasn’t muddled with pain.

“I know it’s early,” he murmurs, bending to pull the covers back. “But you need it.”

Draco dutifully slides under the sheets, eyeing the empty side. The sheets are softer than his own, the heavy duvet warmer, or perhaps it was simply because the boy hadn’t slept in so long that it felt extra comfy. Regardless, Draco sinks heavily against the bed and momentarily closes his eyes as his fingers run over the silk spread below.

“Do you mind if we share?”

At Snape’s question, Draco, without hesitance, shakes his head. “I don’t mind.”

Deep down, this is what Draco was hoping would happen. He would have slept on the sofa if that’s where his professor wanted him, but sharing a bed, feeling the man’s body heat, being close – that’s what Draco wanted when he asked if he could stay.

Now he has it.

Snape removes his robe before slipping under the duvet, leaving his chest bare, his Mark exposed. He makes sure there’s a respectful amount of distance between him and Draco, a few inches to separate each body part. Truthfully, the boy looks like he could use a hug, but Severus doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, would rather have Draco reach out to him on his own accord.

Besides, hugs aren’t exactly his specialty.

“People will talk,” Draco murmurs with a smirk, eyes tired as he looks at Snape. His smirk falls. “Just for a while, until I do what I have to do. Then they’ll talk about that.”

Looking down at his student, Severus answers, “People do little else.”

And it’s true. People already talk, he knows. Their so called discretion barely keeping their speculations hidden. He doesn’t care, had learnt a long time ago there was no point in it. He pauses before continuing, watching as Draco squirms against his mattress, obviously comfortable.

“Will you?” he asks. At the boy’s confused look, he clarifies; “Do what you need to do?”

Then, “Can you?”

The last question is near whispered, almost as if to soften the blow. He knows Draco knows the curses, can perform them near perfectly. He had helped train the boy, but he didn’t think he’d have it in him to _actually_ take the life of another.

Or at least, he hoped he didn’t.

Snape’s last question is like a punch to his gut. Draco feels his pride begin to swell with anger at being doubted, and just as he opens his mouth to defend himself, to tell Severus something along the lines of _Yes. Who do you think I am?_ , he falters.

Laying in Snape’s bed, finally feeling safe enough to let his guard down, Draco has the chance to take the time and really think about what he’s expected to do. Kill Albus Dumbledore.

The thought makes his stomach churn unpleasantly, and he instinctively curls in on himself under the sheets. He stares at Snape’s chest absently.

It takes a couple of minutes before Draco speaks. “What choice do I have?” he asks, voice just as quiet as his professor’s was. Draco swallows hard, realizing his answer wasn’t exclusively a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.

The truth of the matter is Draco _doesn’t_ know if he can do it. He likes to believe he can, he’s a Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake, but killing another human being, another wizard, even if it meant saving his own life…

Draco’s eyes begin to burn with tears once again. He closes them tightly. “If I don’t do it, if I don’t do what they tell me, what _He_ tells me…” he trails off, chest suddenly feeling heavy, his throat tight. Draco chokes on a sob, the reality of it hitting him like a freight train.

Pushing his dignity aside, Draco shuffles closer to Severus, and, after a brief moment of reluctance, tucks his face into the man’s shoulder. His words are muffled against Severus’ skin, “What am I supposed to do?”

Severus watches as he speaks, notices each emotion as it flicks across Draco’s face. He’s not surprised when he sees doubt, hopelessness. He’s ready for the tears when they come, wrapping an arm around Draco’s shoulders and holding him against his chest.

He waits for the worst of Draco’s sobs to subside before speaking.

“Let me help,” he says, for what seems like the millionth time. “You don’t have to do it on your own, Draco. Just let me help.”

Absentmindedly, his hands traces patterns against Draco’s back, through the soft fabric of his shirt. It’s a calming gesture, meant to steady the boy, to give him a pattern he can breathe to.

He doesn’t think too much as he presses his lips to Draco’s forehead, his nose burying in the damp blond locks. He can feel teardrops dampen his skin as Draco continues to cry, albeit softer, and it brings upon a bout of emotion he can’t quite place; something sentimental.

“Please.”

Tired of putting up a fight for his pride’s sake, Draco eventually nods against Severus’ chest in defeat, clinging to the man, knowing he won’t be able to do this alone. Not anymore.

It’s as if a large weight is removed from Severus’ shoulders when Draco nods, relief sweeping through his body immediately. He already has tips to share, advice to give, but it can wait.

Right now, Draco’s rest is more important.

Severus moves his hand to Draco’s hair, fingers threading through it slowly. He shifts his body into a more comfortable position, staring up at the ceiling as he listens to Draco’s breathing even out, the noise lulling him into his own sleep.


End file.
